The White Queen
by Svelte Rose
Summary: Another day, another breath. Hermione plays a game of Wizarding Chess with the Dark Lord.


**Author**: Svelte Rose

**Rating: **R

**Title**: The White Queen

**Characters**: Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort

**Warnings**: Violence, minor character death

**Date**: January 7th, 2010

**Prompt**: 01. Chess

**Summary: ** _Another day, another breath._ Hermione plays a game of Wizarding Chess with the Dark Lord.

**Notes**: Many thanks to my lovely beta, Nicole. :]

.+.+.+.

"Lumos." Having had silence and darkness as her only companions, the voice sounded indistinct and in the glare of the first light she'd seen for weeks, his shape was nothing but a blur. She winced and turned her head away, moving just the slightest bit. She wasn't the least bit surprised at his visit but her heart and breath certainly picked up pace.

These regular visits were the only real way she had of telling time anymore. Her holding cell didn't have a window to show her the passing of the days and even her food was brought at irregular times. She suspected it had more to do with their _mind fuck_ than it had to do with a lack of memory.

It wasn't the solitude that bothered her. Up until her Hogwarts years (and even some times _during_), she'd been a loner. Being unable to control one's magic had a tendency to do that when you were surrounded by regular humans for the first eleven and _most _impressionable years of one's life.

Metal scraped metal as the door swung open and the same voice spoke again.

"Get up."

Hermione shifted her body away from him even more, completely ignoring his intrusion. Her little rebellion lasted all of two seconds before she was unceremoniously yanked up, her bonds magicked away as a pair of hands shoved her past the steel door, unkind epithets falling from his lips.

Her eyes quickly shot open as she stumbled to a stop. Raising her head, she regarded her masked captor with disdain and irritation. He was armed but even without a wand, he would still easily overpower her small frame. There was a slight hesitation in his step and she immediately understood.

No one but he knew what really happened to their only prisoner in solitude. It certainly wasn't guilt pulling the strings on his body, but considering her custody had been given over with specifications, all of which had _not_ been met…

Not that she would tattle.

_As if she would give Voldemort the satisfaction that his Death Eaters had come that much closer to breaking her. _Her glare was unwavering.

Faceless, just like the others but she knew without a doubt that it was Evan Rosier under that white mask.

…_which was strange when she first realized who he was. Hadn't she read his name on the list of deceased?_

"Move along." His rough voice bit out as he shoved her none too gently forward. She bit her tongue and fought the wave of dizziness that followed. Her body swayed with malnourishment but she kept her eyes forward and chin up as he navigated her through several floors and halls. The place was a bloody maze. Added to that, it was absolutely saturated with dark magic, stifling her own special core of magic.

They stopped before a pair of large, ornate doors, her eyes bright and wide as her throat suddenly became too dry to even swallow without at least choking. She flew back into her mind as an easy and quick method of distraction but even that had deserted her in her time of need.

These men were blunt yet remorseless and she had underestimated them. She, who was arrogant from praises of her prowess in battle and her overall intelligence, had found out in a very unfortunate manner…

_Pride comes before the fall. _

It had been her error and it cost her dearly.

And fall, she did. Not only had her mission gone horribly awry but the entire team captured, some summarily executed while the rest had been hand-selected to stay alive for more nefarious reasons that had been entirely too unclear at the time.

A normal execution by the Death Eaters generally included a sort of personal violation before the final kill.

_Like tasting a fine wine,_ she'd heard Bellatrix once compare. Not the people they killed, of course, but the killing itself. The victims weren't worth more than the dirt beneath their feet but the blood spilled; Bellatrix made sure she had first pick of the litter. Hermione knew without a doubt she would have been the mad witch's supper long ago had she'd not already been designated for someone else.

She'd rather preferred Bellatrix's brand of sadism than the one whom she'd been promised to.

They didn't need to knock or announce their presence any longer. It was a scant few seconds before a deep voice laced with just enough of all the evil things in the world to send prickles up one's back, welcomed them in.

The Death Eater, née Evan Rosier, turned the knob and pushed the door open, nudging her through the entry before closing it soundly behind her. Her eyes were riveted towards the center of the room where two chairs and a wooden chess set were plainly situated.

The sickening feeling in her stomach only intensified as she felt her blood drain away from her face, hands and feet. She wanted to die, at this very moment, knowing what this really was and what would follow, but she _couldn't_. Not while she knew Harry was alive and _especially _while her Wizarding Oath remained.

She had _already_ tried escaping; several times, in fact, each a spectacular failure in it of themselves.

Instead, she clenched her jaw resolutely and slowly, _cautiously_, moved forward to take a seat across from the freaky, reptilian visage, eyes the color of the blood that ran through her veins.

_The blood that ran through __**all**__ their veins._

Suddenly and without warning, the snake morphed into a most strikingly beautiful young man she'd ever laid eyes upon. Had she blinked, she would have missed it because as quickly as he turned young and handsome and entirely all too _human, _the visage quickly shifted back to the same disfigurement. This was the first time it had happened and while she had heard tales of Voldemort's previous physical charms from Ginny in a terrifying tale, it was all together something different when she saw it for herself. She watched with eerie fascination before realizing it wasn't fascination _at all_ but a gripping sort of fear that came from seeing something she should have only imagined happening in a movie.

"Black or white?" The question was polite but she had gone through this particular scene enough times for the last few months to realize what the right answer was. Just like taking her seat quietly was the correct thing to do, so was choosing the color.

"White," The witch replied, her voice echoing her despondency.

The intricately carved wooden pieces moved into their places, tiny jeweled eyes glinting as the knights, rooks, and pawns gave their war cry, looking to their queen, their general.

He moved his first piece without delay and soon, they were thick into the game. It moved quickly and without any sort of clemency. This was nothing new and like all the other times, the competitor in her was thankful for all the nights Ron made her stay up with him to play. Strangely enough, having only played the game for a few months, she knew they were pretty evenly matched.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before her queen was cornered by a bevy of dark pieces. She had several options before her; move here or there but it didn't matter. Her queen was trapped.

Closed in by a particularly malicious looking bishop, the piece seemed to echo her most intimate sentiments. The figurine snarled as strands of her silvery hair fell from her plait in clumps around her carved face. She held up a tiny sword, jumping forward as though to taunt them, only to fall back when they called her bluff.

There was a chuckle and Hermione bristled, jerking her hand and forcing herself to keep from the immediate reaction of looking up. Focusing was difficult as the sound seemed to scratch deep into her soul. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his visage continue to flicker between the two faces. Ironically, it wasn't the inhuman look that bothered her but the demonically attractive façade.

She narrowed her attention on the game, a fight occurring within her to make _certain_ right moves. She knew what move _she _**wanted** to make but the move she _**had**_to make seemed to have a stronger will than that of her own.

Tears sprung into her eyes and it took every ounce of motivation not to let them drop. Her hand twitched as the two magicks fought within her but in the end, the Oath forced her hand to fly across the board once more, pushing her knight who seemed as surprised as the ugly caricature of a wizard sitting across from her.

She bit back a sob as her body gave way to exhaustion, her energy seemingly spent. The knight caught on quickly. He came hurtling into the group and the queen dashed from between two dark pieces. Coming to a rest before the dark king, a victorious smile crossed her tiny face while behind, the other dark pieces rushed to quickly catch up with her.

It was simply too late. Hermione watched, fat, wet droplets rolling down her face while the piece raised her sword like some mighty shield-maiden and very, _very_ neatly, sliced the dark king into two pieces.

If the flash of annoyance and anger hadn't tipped her off, she would have remained sitting as he brought his arm across the board in one fell swoop. Shooting up from her seat, she watched as the pieces toppled to the ground, emitting little squeals in their remonstration.

It didn't matter anyway. The game was over and she'd won, _just like every other time she'd played._ It wasn't any reason to celebrate and certainly not for the terms stipulated.

_Especially __**because **__of the terms stipulated._

"Bring in the prisoner." His words were just this side of calm and she looked up, caught by surprise at the even tone. It was his handsome, youthful visage that greeted her with the same fanatical look in his eyes.

She was thankful for the door that creaked open and gave her the very reason to look away. The sight that greeted her only served to unwound her even more as a struggling witch brutally onto the ground in front of them.

"Ugh." The witch grunted as the Death Eater who brought her in kicked her with a steeled toe. Following the abuse even further, a hand reached down and yanked the witch up by her hair with such force, she heard her former classmate's neck crack.

_Hannah Abbott_.

Her hazel eyes were unfocused but from pain, fear and a whole load of other things she couldn't really pick out, Hermione recognized one very simple thing as they locked gazes.

_Her look._

It was the same look she'd encountered in Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, Susan Bones, Alicia Spinnet, and Kenneth Towler, in that very room, in that very situation.

It was the look they threw at her while waiting for the signal to storm a compound in what was supposed to be surprise attack, completely unaware of its deceit.

It was exactly that look that they imparted upon her as she was plucked from their group and placed in a stifling dungeon corner with enough wards to suffocate any regular witch.

And it had been – _would be_ – their look, watching as Voldemort plucked the tiny chess sword from the white queen and enlarged it before forcing the now transfigured weapon in the bushy-haired witch's hands.

It was and _is_ that look that asks so much of her, yet so little she couldn't help but sob angrily as she raised the weapon and swung with all her strength.

She watched with a strange sort of stupefaction as Hannah closed her eyes in her customary acquiescence, the same sort of acknowledgement she shared with her predecessors that also encountered this sorry fate.

Her last breath was all too suddenly cut short.

Hermione hadn't been as quick in her movements, just having enough time to turn her head before it coated her right side with blood. The body practically jeered at her as its life force gushed out, the _thump, thump, thump_ of Hannah's head rolling across the floor to join in on the morbid melody.

The sword dropped to the ground with a loud clang and her knees fell down hard beside it. The sound of sick filled the air as she spat bile onto the scarlet coated marble tiles, half choking and half sobbing while her stomach turned, twisted and flipped itself inside out as her insanity exploded.

_Clip. Clip. Clip. _His gait was slow and relaxed. The gruesome scene didn't faze him one bit and she felt her intestines knot up once more.

She felt, rather than saw him crouching above her, eyes filled with a type of bizarre mirth.

"Take her back to her cell."

She was yanked back onto her feet and practically had to be dragged as her mind valiantly fought to regain itself from her budding psychosis. Getting away from him was bit of respite from her guilt but not enough as his parting words fill her with more anguish and trepidation than all the blood she'd shed in this room.

"Next time?"

Or rather,

"Next time."

It hadn't been a question so much as it was a statement.


End file.
